scandals

the ubiquitous senate expenses scandal (which the sixty-something brady b(r)unchers beside me are currently debating) began roughly a year ago. right around the start of that other scandal: the NHL lockout. and right around the start of my acquaintanceship with Paco, a tiny mediterranean man in his thirties who'd frequented this coffeeshop until he was permanently kicked out on account of being routinely disruptive. he and i had met months before he got the boot: at the grocery store just a few doors down from the café, Paco had been standing by the avocados when he made eye contact with me at the checkout and declared: hey, Bella, you're an aquarius, aren't you! after he failed twice more at "Name That Zodiac Sign" (and after i immediately identified him as a leo -- huzzah!), we regularly ran into each other at the coffee shop and on the neighbourhood's main drag. i would listen while he -- fully flamboyant, perpetually mid-sentence, and equal parts endearing and belligerent -- would tell a tale or two about the xmas gifts he'd picked out for his mom or about having a bottle hurled against his apartment door during a fiery episode with his landlady or boyfriend the night before.

one evening a week or so ago, while passing the park that faces the coffee shop, i noticed someone lying curled up at the base of one of the trees. Paco. he had a torn blanket and a skinny excuse for a pillow underneath him, and there was an empty tim hortons cup nearby. my friend and i (on our way to the coffee shop) stopped to talk with him, and he told us the story of getting kicked out of a few different homes, including his mother's. an hour later, we dropped off a banana and a yogourt (Grandma says you should eat one of each, every day), a hot coffee and, shortly after that, an intact pillow.

on this chilly, drizzly ottawa morning, the coffee shop and its many mugs are full. the park, meanwhile, is decidedly empty. and it feels even emptier when, perusing today's globe and mail, i come across an article about Harley Lawrence -- "the only homeless man" in berwick, nova scotia -- who "mysteriously" passed away on wednesday. a fiery episode, seemingly involving two teenagers, some gasoline and a bus shelter. ah, la vida es una mierda maravillosa; sometimes, life is one marvellous piece of sh*t.

and now back to translating...

the whip

i'm a grande-no-whip-hot-chocolate kinda gal. less than a grande is too little, more is almost always too much, and -- while i couldn't truthfully say i don't like whip cream (it is undeniably delightful) -- i don't love the flavour enough to want to consume all those calories or all that extra sugar on a daily (*gulp*) basis. (plus, sticking with this regimen makes whip cream all the tastier when, in about a week's time, it shows up in giant-homemade-dollop form atop a spectacular slice of Grandma's pumpkin pie. *salivating*)

but, this morning, the campus baristas goofed: missed the "no whip" component of my order. it happens. and it's no problem. on the contrary, i'm of the opinion that goofing (whether "up" or "around") usually serves a constructive purpose. and so i'm inclined to embrace the blunder and wonder what it all might mean. (i know: how new-age!) indeed, it seems that, today, the whip isn't just the sweet, white, foamy mass of fantastic fat it would have us believe it is. no, no. it's a disguised kick in the ass. a lactose-rich hat tip to the key political figure by the same name -- the one "charged with ensuring party discipline among members of the caucus." riiiiiight...discipline. parliament -- having once again been prorogued -- isn't the only one seemingly lacking it lately. just a ten-minute walk southeast of the hill, some of those attempting to produce a thoughtful and coherent thesis proposal are, unfortunately, also in need of just such a whipping. in the words of another ottawa figure: wuh-PAH!

and, so, now back to translating a whole lot of readings and scribblings into some semblance of a thesis proposal...